Reassembly Required
by hifunctioning
Summary: In Which Sherlock and John Figure Out How To Reassemble Their Post-Post-Reichenbach Lives Together, John Struggles With Having a Really Not Psychosomatically Injured Leg, and They Solve a Double Murder in the Meantime. Sequel to my fic "One Way Out." Non-slash Bromance or Pre-slash, as you wish. Some discussion of mental illness/hospitalization and suicide.
1. Sherlock: Homecoming

A/N: This is a sequel to my fic "One Way Out" which I will summarize thusly: Sherlock returns, John is pissed but forgives him, they go on the run because Moran is after John, John kills Moran, but not before Moran shoots him in the leg. There are many angsty feels along the way. Thank you to everyone who liked "One Way Out" and motivated me to write a sequel!

(Then I wrote a couple more. And in a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.)

This here fic was inspired by 3 things:

1. I felt pretty bad for shooting John in the leg once I realized he wouldn't be able to keep up with Sherlock (I hope his limp is temporary but it's too soon to tell);

2. The canon quote, "I am here to be used, Holmes" from _The Illustrious Client _(I know, it's so slashy, and ok I admit I am planning to write a slash inspired by that quote too, but this is my platonic version - John figuring out how to be useful when he can't run around like before);

3. _The Adventure of the Cardboard Box, _which I thought was perfect for BBC Sherlock in its gruesomness and adapted for the casefic here.

* * *

Chapter 1

Sherlock: Homecoming

Sherlock pays the cabbie. Then he holds the door. It's all so slow. Terribly, painfully slow.

Sherlock knew this limp would not be like the one John had when they met. But he didn't anticipate how different it would be. It's consistent, oppressive, and crushingly slow.

It's also very fresh.

Technically John shouldn't even be discharged yet, but Sherlock has become very bored with him being in hospital. Not that Sherlock himself has been spending any time there. God, is there a duller place on the planet? He was there for the first 11 hours – there when John woke up and for a little while longer. Then Mycroft whisked him away and there were hours and hours of tedious negotiations and lectures and underhanded bribes and blackmailing and by the end of it all Sherlock's charges were suspended and he was allowed to go. He returned to John's room, then, but after a couple hours of his pacing and poking at the equipment and terrorizing the staff, John sternly sent him home.

So he went home. 221B Baker Street had a couple more bullet holes in the wall and the kitchen door needed to be replaced, but other than that, it was perfect. Except for the lack of John.

DI Dimmock started calling him immediately. Unsurprisingly, the Yard's close rate had plummeted when Sherlock did, so they had a stack of cold and lukewarm cases just whimpering for Sherlock's attention. He was more than happy to oblige.

He'd text John occasionally throughout the day. Often just little snippets that came to mind in the cab ride from point A to B or while pacing on a street corner waiting for Dimmock. (Dimmock was always late. Lestrade never made him wait.)

_They couldn't all 3 have been killed at the same time, look which way the shoes were pointing.  
__SH_

_Wrinkle in rug says she was aiming for someone else, out the window.  
__SH_

_Tetanospasmin.  
__SH_

John would answer about 23% of the time, which was unsatisfying but better than nothing. It was just good to know someone was at the other end.

Then the case was over, and the next case and the next and the next, and eventually he noticed that the flat was empty and no one had made tea.

_Come home. I'm bored.  
__SH_

_Me too. But they don't think I'm ready.  
__JW_

_What do you think?  
__SH_

_That I may as well lie around on my arse there.  
__JW_

_Agreed.  
__SH_

Strings were pulled and honestly, John's care team didn't put up much of a fight, probably because it turns out Dr. Watson is a right pain in the arse as a patient. Whatever the reason, they discharged him early.

And Sherlock is simply appalled at how long it's taking him to climb the stairs.

Finally in the living room, John eases into his armchair and gazes at the sofa. It's obvious he's thinking of the last time he sat there, bleeding profusely from his left shoulder and right thigh, the body of Sebastian Moran just outside the door.

"You didn't have Mrs. Hudson clean up for me, did you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I picked the flat up myself," Sherlock snaps. "Don't look at me like that, I do know how. Can't have you getting infected. I'm not your nurse, though. I won't be taking care of you, you know."

"Oh, thank god for small blessings." John leans his head back onto the armchair and smiles. "Make us some tea though?"

Sherlock grumbles in his throat but is happy to have something to do. He bounces off to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. Then, even though it's really not cold, he lights a fire.

It's been a long time since they drank tea together in this room, and Sherlock has never been one for nostalgia, but this is what he thought about on certain cold, damp nights when he felt more alone than he has ever felt before. So he indulges in a little sentiment right now, sitting in his chair across from John's, both of them sipping their tea and wiggling their toes before the fire.

"Tell me about the cases," John says, and Sherlock does, and John tells him he's brilliant and fantastic, and Sherlock agrees, and John also tells him he's an egotistical prick and a heartless wanker, and Sherlock makes certain remarks about John's stature and ancestry, and then he plays his violin for a little while. It's a typical gray afternoon as he stands at the window playing a lazy concerto, looking through a light rain at the empty house across the street where for a moment he thought he'd really done it this time, gone and got John killed.

He calls House of Hong for takeaway. John used to always go pick it up, but since that's not practical, Sherlock has it delivered.

After they eat, Sherlock sees it. John thinks he's hiding it, but it's a laughable effort.

"You're in pain, John."

"No, I'm not."

"You are. Take your medication."

"Leave off. I'm fine, really."

"You are not fine. Stop being stubborn, or manly, or..." It's clear as day, then. "_Idiot!_" He springs out of his chair and begins pacing. "You didn't bring them, did you? You didn't want to bring them in the flat, you didn't want to bring them around _me_, so you decided you would just suffer through the pain of a hole in your bloody leg without any painkillers, is that it?"

John presses his lips together, sucks his teeth. "Yeah, that's it."

"Do you think you're being noble? Do you think you're a martyr? Because that would make you pathetic as well as stupid. Call the hospital right now and tell them you forgot your meds."

"No."

Sherlock grabs his hair and groans in frustration, then takes a deep breath and speaks as calmly as he can. "John. You think, apparently, that I have no self-control, but I assure you I can always access any drugs I want at any time of night or day. Having some pills on the premises will make no difference. Your medications are safe here. I will not touch them. I promise."

John looks up and says in a steely voice, "I know all about the promises of addicts."

Sherlock's face freezes. "You said you trusted me."

"I do. I do, about anything except this."

Sherlock spins around, grabs his coat, and is gone.

When he returns, it's late and the fireplace cradles just a few final embers, so the living room is almost completely dark. John has moved from the armchair to the sofa and is lying so that he's facing the door. His eyes are closed, but Sherlock can hear him breathing before he comes in, so he knows John is awake.

"Here."

He sets the black metal box on the coffee table next to the sofa.

"What's this, then?" John sits up slowly. It takes him so long to sit up. He's wincing and pale. Stupid _stupid_ man.

"As soon as I leave, Mycroft will call you with the combination. If there are two incorrect attempts to unlock it, the interior will immediately heat up, destroying the active ingredients of the pills contained therein. Don't bother hiding it; obviously I can find it if I want to. But I can't get in."

And with a whirl of his coat, he's gone again.

When he comes back a couple hours later, John is still on the sofa, but asleep. Sherlock turns his armchair to face the sofa, curls up in it like a cat, and watches John, breathing deeply, peacefully, for seven and a half minutes.

Then he leaps up and goes to the kitchen to resume his experiment with potato alkaloids. A little while later he thinks to cover John with a duvet.

The next morning he coaxes John into making pancakes. He even does the shopping and picks up bananas, because John likes bananas on his pancakes. Sherlock hates them, but he buys them anyway.

John spends the day with his sister, which is not entirely unreasonable (Sherlock doesn't understand what John feels about Harry, but he accepts that most people don't feel the same animosity towards their siblings that he does). That doesn't mean he has to like it though, so he paces about the flat and begins, and then abandons, two additional experiments as well as an exhaustive database of shoe soles while he waits for John to return.

As soon as he hears the door, he dashes downstairs. Harry's there, apparently thinking that she can help John climb up the stairs, but it's not necessary so Sherlock waves her away. She snorts, mumbles something unflattering under her breath, kisses John on the cheek and is gone. Finally. And John's already walking up the stairs – slowly, so very slowly – because of course he doesn't need anyone's help, but Sherlock is right behind him, just in case.

Sherlock suggests a Bond night. They watch "Goldfinger" (John's favorite) and "From Russia With Love" (the one Sherlock has grudgingly admitted he finds least insulting). Sherlock systematically decimates every plot point and each transgression against the laws of physics, as John grumbles and complains and argues and laughs in spite of himself. He tries to throw popcorn at Sherlock when he thinks the other man's not looking, but Sherlock catches it every time.

Before the second movie ends, Sherlock gets up to check on his ester hydrolysis. He gets a little distracted by it and when he finally returns, finds John asleep on the sofa. He covers him with the duvet again before going to bed himself.

The next afternoon, Sherlock is in the kitchen, wrapping up the alkaloid experiment and thinking he'll tell Dimmock he's ready for another cold case. John is on the sofa, staring blankly at his laptop. Sherlock knows he's trying to write in his preposterous blog and doesn't know how to begin. Or perhaps his mind is clouded with the drugs. Or with pain. Sherlock frowns, walks over to the sofa, and leans over to examine John's face at very close range. Yes, that's it. He narrows his eyes and glowers.

"Take your drugs, John," he commands, and stomps off to his room. He can hear John protesting, I'll take them when I'm ready blah blah blah, but he also hears the black metal box sliding across the floor.

A few minutes later, Sherlock receives a text that sends him bounding back to the living room.

"A case, John! Dimmock's got something for us at the Yard! Get up!"

John opens his eyes and smiles weakly. "Go on without me, Sherlock. I'm not fit for much right now. Not… not in good shape for solving crimes. Sorry."

Sherlock, frowns, shoves his hands in his pockets and bounces from foot to foot. "It's just the Yard," he offers plaintively. "We won't be running about in the street."

John chuckles, though it sounds more like breathing. "With you, I never know." His eyelids are drooping. "Sorry. I can't."

Sherlock curses under his breath and turns to grab his coat. Then he pauses, takes his phone from his pocket, and sends Dimmock a text.

When John wakes up, Sherlock is hovering over him with a glass of cold water, a cup of hot tea, some slightly burnt toast, and a change of clothes all lined up on the coffee table.

"Brilliant," he smiles. "Dimmock is waiting. Let's go." He gestures at the coffee table with a dramatic flourish of his long fingers and turns to leave. Then he pauses, hearing John's sleepy groan of confusion. "Take your time," he adds, and walks away. "But do hurry," he calls from the kitchen.

It takes forever. Surely purgatory will feel like a commercial break compared to this. No less than 14 times, Sherlock almost jumps up and heads to the Yard himself, and that's not counting the 33 times he resisted while John was asleep. But he really doesn't want to go to the Yard by himself. He has been, and it's awful. It's illogical because of course, before John, he only went to the Yard by himself and was perfectly content. And while John was in hospital, he had no choice, so it was tolerable. But now, John's here. If you don't have a John Watson, you make do. But if you do have a John Watson, why would you go without him, no matter how slow he is? You wouldn't.

He's ready. Finally. He's wearing his favorite oatmeal jumper, which Sherlock specially picked out even though he detests it. He's showered and shaved and looks altogether like someone who feels very poorly but is nonetheless a functioning member of society. That's more than adequate.

Sherlock leaps out of the kitchen chair, throws on his coat and scarf, and bounds down the stairs to hail a cab.

John settles into the cab. "Lestrade?," he asks.

"Dimmock," Sherlock replies.

"But what about Lestrade?"

"Still suspended."

"What are we going to do about that?"

"Do? We?"

"Aren't you helping him get reinstated?"

"I've established my legitimacy. Once Mycroft proved to me he wasn't compromised, I gave him all the evidence. Moran's death gave me the final pieces I needed. It's all being leaked to the press, so Lestrade will be reinstated in due course."

John works at the inside of his cheek, thinking this over. "You'll help him if due course doesn't work."

"Help him? Why?"

"He stood by you. He sacrificed his career for you."

"Not for me. He knew the truth and he can't stand a lie. He wouldn't have capitulated to any other lie either."

"Irrelevant, Sherlock. The truth in question was you. He had your back."

"And I saved his life."

"Oh. Do you think you're done, then?"

A silence hangs in the cab. Sherlock grits his teeth.

"Fine. If due course doesn't work, you find out what I can do."

John beams.

They both gaze out the window at the rain, the familiar streets. Sherlock looks at John out of the corner of his eye and knows he's enjoying the novelty of driving through the city without caring who might see him. It's mildly intoxicating. Sherlock himself was a little drunk on that feeling not that long ago, but at the time he wished John was there to share it.

John turns to meet his eyes and Sherlock gives him a little half-smile. "It's good to be free," he says softly.

"It is," John agrees. "It is." Then he frowns. "Sherlock, will Donovan be there?"

"Possibly. Why?"

"How has she… You've seen her since you've been back, haven't you? How has she acted?"

"As stupid as ever."

"Has she apologized?"

"Apologized?" Sherlock snorts. "No, not that I've noticed. Why would she?"

"Mmm, I don't know… for ruining your reputation, destroying your life, accusing you of horrible crimes, driving you to your suicide."

"Sergeant Sally Donovan is not capable of driving me to suicide," Sherlock laughs.

"But she didn't know that, did she? What has she been thinking all this time? Does she feel any remorse? When I think what she…" John's jaw is clenched, his hands are tight fists on his knees, and his voice is dropping dangerously low. "Sherlock. I'm not sure what I'll do when I see her."

Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise and delight. "You're not?"

"I'm really not."

"Are you going to hit her?" Sherlock isn't even trying to contain the glee in his voice. "You're definitely stronger than her. She doesn't stand a chance unless she pulls her gun. You did bring your gun?"

"The Sig is seriously illegal, Sherlock. I am not bringing to the Yard."

The joy in Sherlock's face subsides a bit. "Then you shouldn't. She's certain to pull her gun. Do you really want to though? You care that much about her accusations of me?"

"It had some effect on me too, you know."

"Yes," Sherlock demurs, "foreseeable, but quite unintended by her."

"Are you actually sticking up for Donovan?"

"Absolutely not. She's still as dim and irritating as ever. But she did what she was meant to do. She looked at the facts set out before her, saw what fit what she already believed, and reached the conclusion that any cop of average intelligence would reach. She did her job, exactly the way that Moriarty intended. She played the role he wrote for her; you can't expect a normal person to do any differently."

"I did."

"Did you? Your role was to back me into a corner. You played it brilliantly. You should win awards."

"Well, I wasn't duped."

"If he'd wanted you to be duped, you'd have been duped."

"Bollocks." John covers his face with both hands. "I can't believe this, now you're defending Donovan _and_ Moriarty?"

"I'm not defending anyone. I'm just pointing out the facts which you would see for yourself if your simple mind wasn't hindered by emotion." Sherlock looks out the window. "Also, as much as I enjoy watching you hit people, it's not the best time for you to get arrested. We're still dealing with your charges, you know."

"And now _you're_ counseling _me_ on self-restraint. I should've recorded this conversation."

Sherlock smirks. "You can ask Mycroft for the tape, I'm sure."


	2. John: Evidence

For just a moment, John allows himself to pretend that none of it happened. Moriarty was convicted and somehow kept in prison. Sherlock had no reason to jump off a building. John had no reason to wake up in a cage of loneliness day after day. Sebastian Moran had no reason to shoot him in the leg. It's all just the way it was, as the cab pulls up in front of the Yard. Sherlock pays the cabbie – that's different, but not unprecedented – and then they stride through the big double doors, Sherlock's coat fluttering around him and John just to his left and a couple paces behind. He tries not to notice how Sherlock's body moves, tense and awkward because he is straining to make each step small and slow and even with that effort he's still too fast. John tries not to notice his own body, how much he's leaning on his cane, how little it helps, how the burning in his leg is dulled by the painkillers, allowing him to push it now so he can almost keep up, and he'll pay for that later, he knows, when the burn flourishes into a hungry wildfire. He tries and fails spectacularly.

As they pass through the open area on their way to Dimmock's office, Donovan appears.

"John," she says. "It's good to see you. Glad to see you're –"

Sherlock stops in his tracks and turns to watch, his eyes glittering with interest. His arm is relaxed but, John notices with satisfaction, slightly bent the way he holds it when he's ready to throw an elegant right hook.

"I can't say the same, Donovan," John replies. He draws himself up and stares her down. "Stay the hell away from us."

_Us._ People will certainly talk, but they likely never stopped. Sherlock smirks and starts forward again. John turns to follow him, letting his cane bang against Donovan's shins as he does.

"Sherlock!" Dimmock rises from his desk with a broad grin. "And John, hello, great to see you up and about." His eyes are fixed on Sherlock even as he greets John, and he's doing a poor job of hiding his excitement. "Happy Christmas!" He hands Sherlock an evidence box.

Sherlock opens the box and breathes, "_Oh._"

John has seen a particular expression, something along the lines of ecstatic delight, at that moment when Sherlock solves a case, but nothing like _this_, the way his eyes widen and wash turquoise, the slight tremor traveling along his long fingers, the sharp gasp that seems to lift his entire body just a little off the ground, and the long, shuddering exhale that follows.

John is watching in amazement when he hears Donovan whispering, "Didn't I tell you? Do you suppose he's gonna bust a nut right –"

John spins around to find her and Anderson huddled in the doorway, snickering. He shoves them both out silently, much harder than necessary, and slams the door. Sherlock and Dimmock are oblivious; Sherlock staring at the contents of the box and Dimmock staring at him. John limps over to stand next to Sherlock and there, in the evidence box, are two human ears. Not a pair. Sherlock is putting on gloves and now picking them up one at time, turning them over, caressing them, murmuring incoherently under his breath.

"Knew you'd like them," Dimmock babbles excitedly. "Brilliant, yeah? Ms. Sonya Cushing received them in the post yesterday. She has no idea why." He waits for Sherlock to ask him a question, but when none comes he continues. "Her best guess, and our only suspect, is a Dr. Amjad Khan. He's a plastic surgeon, or he was. Cushing works for the General Medical Counsel and revoked his license two weeks ago after he was found unfit for practice. She's just an administrator, but he stormed into her office and said in front of several witnesses that she'd regret it, hadn't seen the last of him, the bitch will pay, etcetera. We arrested him this morning but he's given us nothing except an alibi showing he couldn't have posted it from London himself; he just got back in the country last night and has the documentation to prove it. An accomplice could've posted it for him though. What do you think?"

Sherlock is lost in his communion with the ears, examining each centimeter of the smaller one with his pocket magnifying glass, then turning to the larger, then holding them up to the light, one in each hand, then bringing each one in turn close to his face, examining its inner folds.

Finally he speaks. "The package?"

Dimmock produces a plain cardboard box, addressed to:

S. Cushing  
430A Kingsland Road  
London E8 4AA

No return address, of course. Postmark, London.

"It's a man's writing. English is his first language or he's perfectly comfortable with it. Right-handed. Something got the ink wet before it dried. Rain? Sweat? Tears?" Sherlock shrugs and turns his attention back to the ears,

"I'm sorry," Dimmock volunteers, "but I can't let you speak to Khan, as he's in custody. But if you've questions –"

"No need," Sherlock interrupts.

"No?" Dimmock's face brightens. "You've already worked it out?"

"It's not him."

"But he's our only suspect. And it fits, doesn't it? He's got the motive, the tools, and the ability."

"Is that right?" Sherlock asks, in a tone that John knows means it is definitely not.

"Yes, exactly, and, well, he's Pakistani, and it's a… well, this slicing off people's ears, that's something they do down there, isn't it? I reckon you've seen it in Afghanistan, haven't you, John?"

"Yeah, I have." John takes a deep breath and involuntarily clenches his left hand at the memory. "Afghanis, Brits, Americans, Aussies, taking a souvenir home… I've seen it."

"That's what I'm saying. So… Wait, Brits? Ours don't do that."

"All sorts do that. They don't necessarily stop with ears." John's voice is low and flat. There's a lot about the war that he doesn't miss.

"Brits?"

"Dimmock," John says in a condescending voice that he thinks he might have picked up from Sherlock. "At the risk of stating the obvious, war does bad things to people. All sorts of people. Including Brits."

John limps over to the sofa at the far wall of the office, sits, and puts up his leg. He won't waste any more energy on Dimmock and it's apparent that Sherlock is going to want more quality time with the ears. John briefly considers taking a cab home by himself as he's clearly not needed here. But then he imagines Sherlock leaving alone, stashing the ears in his pocket at the last moment, handing an empty evidence box back to Dimmock with a dazzling smile on his face… No. Better stay.

"John!"

He jumps and shakes his head. He didn't mean to doze off, didn't even realize he had. It's those bloody pills.

Sherlock is already halfway out the door. He's out of sight by the time John makes it to the hallway and he's resigned himself to taking his own cab home, but when he steps out on the sidewalk he's surprised to see Sherlock, tapping his fingers and foot with great irritation, but holding the cab door.

"Aren't you a gentleman," John smirks as he gets into the backseat.

Sherlock grunts and folds himself into the cab, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully across his lower lip.

"What do we know, then?" John asks amiably.

"_I_ know a great deal. One man, one woman, mid to late 20's. The woman's race and ethnicity are ambiguous; she could be darker skinned Caucusian or lighter skinned Asian or Black. Two piercings, one done in a shop and one done by hand long ago and closed up. She habitually wore her hair tied back and burned herself with a straightening iron at least once. The man is Caucasian, had short hair, and spent a lot of time outside, but not consistently; the top of his ear has been sunburned repeatedly. From the texture of his skin, I think he was a smoker, though with one so young it's hard to tell. Their ears were severed – inexpertly, not by a professional – not long before the box was posted. Within hours, I'd say. And they were already, but recently, dead at the time. We're going to chat with Ms. Cushing."

They arrive at 430A Kingsland Road before she does, and John manages to persuade Sherlock that breaking in will be counterproductive, as she's likely to get home at any moment. They sit on the front stoop of her building and John tosses out increasingly outlandish theories for severed ears in the post, for the sole purpose of being shot down by Sherlock's derisive snorts and groans.

Sonya Cushing does not have a pleasant expression as she crosses the street towards them. She's quite an attractive woman. Caramel complexion, dark brown eyes, round face, broad nose. Her black hair is done in a thousand meticulous braids and twisted on top of her head. John thinks she'd be beautiful if she didn't look like she's just swallowed something disgusting and possibly toxic.

"Sherlock Holmes," she says in a tone consistent with announcing to one's partner that their cat has vomited on the duvet again.

Sherlock flashes a charming smile. "Yes. And my associate, Dr. John Watson."

John extends his hand, gets no response, and puts it back in his pocket.

"I told Detective Inspector Dimmock I would cooperate with the investigation in whatever way I can. Of course when I said that, I couldn't imagine he would send _you_, but I will keep my word." She brushes past them to unlock the door. She doesn't invite them in, but leaves the door open and lets them follow.

"I've no idea why you're here," she continues as she hangs up her coat and sets her bag down in her living room. "They've already arrested the man who obviously did this, they just need to connect the dots. I've already told them everything I know. And _you…_" She glowers at Sherlock. "You're no better than a reality TV star."

John has instinctively maneuvered himself between them by the time she finishes her sentence. He can feel Sherlock seething behind him but ignores it.

"Ms. Cushing," he says in his best bedside-manner voice, "We are so sorry to disturb you. You've had enough intrusions already." He leans conspicuously on his cane to show non-threatening he is and smiles warmly. "Inspector Dimmock felt he could benefit from an outsider's perspective. Sometimes that helps, doesn't it? It does me. Dr. Khan's not talking, apparently. The urgency of the matter is that we need to find out who those ears belong to."

"I haven't the faintest idea," Cushing answers, but she sounds slightly less prickly.

"Of course you don't. You've told them everything you could." He winces suddenly and tightens his grip on his cane as if he's just felt a twinge of pain. (He hasn't; it's the same dull burn he's felt since the Yard.) He clears his throat and looks at the floor. "Do you mind… if I sit down?" He sounds like a strong, proud soldier embarrassed to ask for help. He knows full well the effect this will have.

"Oh, of course!" Cushing rushes to help him to the sofa. As he makes his way there, he meets Sherlock's eyes in between winces and gestures with his chin towards an armchair across from the sofa. Sherlock's staring at him like he's sprouted an extra head, but he quickly settles into the designated chair.

From his new vantage point on the sofa, John has Sherlock in view at 11:00, but can turn his body to the right to face Sonya Cushing, who's sitting next to him on the sofa at 1:00. He also has a clear view of the room.

"Thank you," he says softly. "I'm sorry, I was shot recently, and…" His voice dies out.

"Oh! Oh, how horrible. Why should you apologize, Dr. Watson?"

"John, please. You're very kind." He raises his eyes to meet hers and holds for a beat, then looks away, licking his lips nervously. "As I was saying, Ms. Cushing…"

"Sonya."

"Ah. Sonya. Yes, as I was saying, if we could ask just a few questions. I know it may be repetitive for you and I do apologize, but sometimes new details will surface. Is that alright?" He bends forward, so concerned for her well-being, she has to smile, ever so slightly.

"Yes… Just a few."

Her reward is a wide John Watson smile of relief, crinkling his cheeks and eyes, and her smile grows just a bit in return.

John asks questions about Khan, anything he can think of, with the most attentive listening face he can muster while, at the same time, watching in his peripheral vision as Sherlock devours the room inch by inch. Finally Sherlock raises an eyebrow and looks at a large framed photograph on the sideboard on the opposite wall. John waits for a natural lull in the conversation about Khan and then cocks his head curiously.

"Is that you?" he asks, pointing the photograph. Three girls and a dog, playing together on a suburban lawn. The oldest looks about 15 years old. The other two are much younger, around 7 and 9.

"The awkward gangly teenager? That would be me, yes," she laughs.

"Gangly? You were beautiful! I mean, not _were_, I don't mean, uh, because now, you are, um…" He blushes just slightly and pointedly ignores a sharp cough in Sherlock's vicinity. "Are those your sisters?" he adds hurriedly.

Sonya is blushing too, just barely. "Yes, that's Siobhan on the left and Alex is holding the puppy."

"Adorable. I had a Golden Lab when I was a kid." Blatant lie. John and Harry had united forces on this, a campaign of several years, but they never were allowed a dog. Nothing in the world could match the combined obstinance of John and Harry Watson, except its source: their mother. Who did not want a dog.

"Marvelous dogs, aren't they? Edmund was really Alex's dog, though, more than anyone else's."

"Edmund? Like _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?"_

Sophia laughs. "Exactly. Alex's favorite book, and she's always loved the underdog."

At 11:00, Sherlock's eyebrows are urging John on.

"Does Alex, uh… live in London, then?"

"Generally, yes, but she and her husband are travelling. Backpacking through China."

"Really? That's fantastic!"

"Is it? She's 26 years old, I tend to think she should get a bit more serious about her life." Sonya frowns slightly, then adds, like someone who's been repeating the same phrase for decades, "But then she's always been a free spirit."

"And her husband?" Sherlock's finger twitches in the direction of another photograph on the sideboard. "Oh, that must be their wedding. Lovely couple."

"They are, aren't they? He's American." She says this in a tone that implies, _but what can you do?_ "He adores her."

Sherlock's eyebrow levitates again.

"Well, that must be a comfort. With her being in China, I mean. Have you heard from them?"

"Actually, Alex emailed me just yesterday, from a city in the southwest. She was terribly excited about hiking some gorge…"

"Tiger Leaping Gorge?"

"You've heard of it?"

"I've seen it. It's breathtaking. They say it's the deepest in the world. It's huge, just massive, you can't imagine, but there's one point where it's just 25 meters across, and the legend is that a tiger leaped that point to escape a hunter. Hence the name."

"Really." Sonya's voice is an odd mixture of sarcasm and wistfulness. "You're a traveler too, then?"

"A bit." That much is true. And John has been to China. But not to Yunnan province, that's another lie. It's dumb luck that he remembered that bit. "You almost sound a bit jealous," John teases.

"Jealous? No, I'm perfectly content here in London." She shakes her head at his skeptical expression. "And I'm happy for her, really."

"Even if you're hoping she'll get it out of her system and get a real job when she gets back."

Sonya laughs. "You caught me, John."

He smiles, just a bit suggestively, and pauses. "And her husband, does he have a real job, or is he a free spirit too?"

"Birds of a feather." She smiles and shakes her head. "They met in Nigeria; she was in the VSO and he'd just finished with the Peace Corps. After that they lived here in London for a good stretch until Jason had a teaching opportunity in Cambodia. That's where he's been for the last few months, and then she just went to meet up with him in China."

"Exciting lives." John catches Sherlock looking meaningfully at the photograph of the three sisters again. "And your other sister? Siobhan, is it?"

Sonya's face is suddenly expressionless. "Siobhan lives with our parents."

"Do you not get on?" John asks cautiously.

"We get on perfectly."

John has the distinct feeling this conversation is over, but of course for Sherlock a conversation is over only when he decides it's over, and at this time Sherlock is still staring insistently at John.

"Does she get on with Alex too?"

"Perfectly." An edge is growing in Sonya's voice and her mouth is a thin line.

"I'm sorry," John leans back and ducks his head slightly. "I don't mean to pry." He chuckles and gestures at the picture of the three girls. "It all started with that. I just thought you looked so happy there and it was charming and it got me curious, that's all." Sonya doesn't smile, but her face softens a little. He tilts his head and considers at the picture thoughtfully. "That's a big age difference between you and the two of them. Me and my sister are only a year apart. I can't imagine what that'd be like. Is it lonely?" He brings his eyes back to hers and holds her gaze two beats too long.

"Yes," she answers, a bit reluctantly. "I suppose. The two of them, they've always had their own world, the same friends… You and your sister, are you like that?"

"Not anymore." John frowns. "No. But when we were young, yes. Sharing everything, fighting over everything, that was us."

Sonya nods. "Yes, that's Siobhan and Alex. Even up to a few months ago, when Siobhan was sharing a flat with Alex and Jason." She looks like she's about to say more but then her mouth snaps shut, and John is sure this time that the interview is over. Sherlock blinks in agreement. Then his fingers wiggle a little line in front of him.

"Nice flat, by the way."

"Thank you. I like it enough."

"Have you lived here long?"

"No, actually. Just this month."

Sherlock stands up abruptly. "Dimmock is expecting us, John."

Sonya's face draws in tight with annoyance. "Well. Then I suppose you must be going."

John leans in slightly and takes her hand. "Sonya, thank you so much for your time, this was very helpful I think. I apologize again for the intrusion. I hope I haven't annoyed you too much…"

Sonya smiles. "You haven't," she admits.

"Well, then. Perhaps we…" John licks his lips and taps his fingers anxiously. "Perhaps we'll run into each other again."

"Perhaps." She stands and walks him to the door. Sherlock's already there. He turns with a dramatic flourish of his coat, which knocks the little hallway table so that the mail piled up on it falls to the floor. John instinctively bends down to pick it up and immediately sees what Sherlock wanted him to see: a phone bill addressed to Siobhan Cushing.

He hands it to Sonya with a smile.

"Cheers," she says.

"Nice of your sister to give you her flat," he says casually. "She had to return home suddenly, then?"

"It worked out well for both of us. The Detective Inspector is waiting for you, I believe?"

"Yes. Sonya, thank you again."

"Of course. Mr. Holmes," she adds coldly.

"Ms. Cushing," he replies, two degrees chillier.

In the cab, John can't help himself. He's smug.

"Well, Sherlock? Am I still a horrible actor?"

"You weren't acting."

"Oh, wasn't I? Did I get her to talk? About everything you wanted? When she wouldn't even give you, the great consulting detective, the time of day?"

"You did. But I assure you, I would've got her talking myself, or else I would've just obtained the same information another way."

"You would not. Admit it, I did something you couldn't do."

"You did something I could've done, and now I don't have to do it."

"If you could've done it, I did it faster and better."

"You're being juvenile."

"You're being stubborn. Just admit it."

"Admit that your comical Lothario tactics make you a superior detective?"

"No. Just admit that this one witness gave _me_ everything you wanted. I was useful, admit it."

A faint shadow of surprise flickers across Sherlock's face. "John. Of course you're useful." He pauses. "But still a horrible actor."

John rolls his eyes with an exasperated snort. "You could at least acknowledge that I _lied._ Quite effectively, thank you."

"Yes, and I suppose you've never lied to a beautiful woman before? And stammered your way into her pants? It was well done, John. Really. As you said, I got what I wanted. But you would've flirted with that woman just as effectively in line at the bank. When I see you get the same results from a large, hairy man, I'll reconsider my assessment of your theatrical talents."

As soon as they get home, Sherlock disappears into his bedroom without comment, allowing John to take his meds and drift off to sleep. It's already dark when he wakes up and stumbles into the kitchen, rubs his eyes, and turns the kettle on with a yawn. He wouldn't mind some more sleep, actually, but Sherlock is here, hunched over his laptop in the kitchen and solving crimes, and that's far more interesting. He circles round to stand behind Sherlock and peers over his shoulder.

**Alexandra Cushing-Franco  
*** Studied at **School of Life!  
*** Lives in **London, United Kingdom  
*** From **Leeds, United Kingdom  
*** Married to **Jason Franco**

March 5 at Heathrow International Airport via mobile  
Ok everyone, here I go! On my way to meet my sweetie **Jason Franco** in Hong Kong and then look out China, here come the Francos! Jason I miss you and love you and can't wait to see you.  
**Jason Franco**, **Sonya Cushing**, and 6 other friends like this.  
**Daniel Beecher **Miss you already. Come home safe, you and J both.

**Alexandra Cushing-Franco** - **Jason Franco  
**April 30  
I love you. I miss you.  
**Jason Franco **Same here, baby. See you very soon.

"Alex Cushing's Facebook?"

"Brilliant, John."

"Anything to share with the rest of the class?"

"Her last post, at Heathrow, was four days ago. Her timeline prior to that is mainly filled with inane chatter, inspirational quotes, videos of baby animals, and outraged treatises about heinous crimes against humanity happening anywhere but in the United Kingdom. But look." He clicks on her photo album and begins scrolling through the pictures. "What do you see?"

John shrugs. "She's a gregarious, active twentysomething with a healthy social life. She likes to have a pint with her friends at the pub, goes dancing, hiking. Plays football. Huh. And she's very pretty."

"Mm, like her sister? That's actually not what I was pointing out, though."

"And what were you pointing out?"

"As usual, John, you see but do not observe. Three individuals show up in these photos far more than any others." He pauses on a picture of four laughing people sitting on a picnic blanket on the beach. The caption says:

August 29 via mobile  
with **Jason Franco**, **Siobhan Cushing**, and **Daniel Beecher** at Camber Sands.

Sherlock goes back to the thumbnails and clicks on another picture. It's a larger group, eight people raising their pints. Four of them are Alex, Jason, Siobhan, and Daniel.

A marathon. Alex (wearing number 122) raising her fist triumphantly as Jason puts a towel around her shoulders; Daniel (wearing number 121) pouring his water bottle over her as Siobhan laughs.

Cooking dinner. Jason wields a spatula like a sword, Siobhan blocking with a wooden spoon, and Daniel making an obscene gesture on her right. Alex is apparently behind the camera.

It goes on like that.

"Cute. They're a little tribe. What of it? This Daniel Beecher is Siobhan's boyfriend, I suppose?"

"Wrong." Sherlock clicks over to Siobhan's profile, which proclaims her relationship status is "single." Then he turns to Beecher's, which is "complicated."

John shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time two people disagreed on how to describe their relationship."

"But they're both dating. Look." He clicks through Beecher's photos, then Siobhan's, showing them both with attractive people of the opposite sex. "You see how he's got his arm around this woman, with his hand on her upper arm, not her shoulder. Yes. And then in the pub over here, his hand is touching hers and she's leaning into him. And then Siobhan… here, she is trying entirely too hard with this man, look at how she's pressing her cheek against his and her smile is clearly forced."

"So they're in a relationship but seeing other people."

"Wrong again. Because when they're together, you see, they're completely comfortable, no tension, though they rarely touch. But…" He opens another window and clicks back through the pictures of the four of them together. "Look at Siobhan. Note how she dresses with her other friends. Note how she dresses with Jason." John raises an eyebrow, appreciating this point. "See how she seems to always position herself next to him. Usually leaning into him. And in candid shots…"

Alex's birthday party. She's looking at her cake, half a dozen people including Jason and Daniel are looking at her, and Siobhan is looking at Jason.

"I see," John agrees. "Oh, and there again. And there."

"Right. Notice anything else?"

Back to the picture on the beach. All four are laughing, but Jason and Siobhan (tilting her head towards him) are looking at the camera, while Alex and Daniel are looking at each other.

Hiking in the Lake District, the wind whipping their clothing and hair around, Siobhan is apparently behind the camera this time, Jason has his arm around Alex as he points at something off in the distance, but she's reaching out an arm to beckon Daniel over, and he's already walking towards her.

A rooftop party. Paper lanterns lighting up the night, all the girls in bright summer dresses, everyone holding a bottle of beer. In the foreground, Siobhan, Jason, and an unnamed man are laughing together. Behind them and mostly in shadow, a man and a woman with their backs to the camera, looking out over the London skyline, the woman resting her head on the man's shoulder.

"That's Alex and Daniel?"

"Obviously."

"So. Alex and Daniel are in love. And Siobhan is in love with Jason. And… whose ears are we looking at?"

"Unfortunately, no one's, since I didn't bring them home. Should've done. But yes, that is the question. All four of them are unaccounted for, and there are no decent profile shots here for me to compare any of their ears. I'm certain that the female is one of the sisters, though. Just look at Sonya's ears. Well, I suppose you did. As for the male, Jason and Daniel also have similar skin tone and again, I've no suitable photos."

"What do you mean they're all unaccounted for? Alex sent an email from China."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really, John? You don't suppose her husband, lover, or sister could've sent an email from her account? As for Daniel, his employer has informed me that he left town rather suddenly last week. Gone home to Scarborough for a family emergency."

"You're going to Leeds then? Or to Scarborough?"

"Leeds first." Sherlock frowns. "_We_. Are going to Leeds. You don't have a job or a girlfriend, so your old excuses won't work. Book our tickets, will you?" He strides across the room and puts on his coat.

"Sherlock… I'm not at all sure my leg can take two to three hours in a train seat. I'm sorry, I think I'd better sit this one out."

Sherlock snorts. "First Class, John. I'm not telling you to walk there. Honestly, why are we discussing this? You want nothing more than to come to Leeds with me." He finds John's laptop under a pile of papers on the coffee table and places it in his lap. "Tickets. National Express. First Class. And a hotel, Chapeltown area if possible." This is a miserable idea, John thinks. I will regret this heartily.

Sherlock dips into his coat pocket, pulls out a credit card, and tosses it across the room to John. On his way out the door he announces, "Need data. Going to have a look at Daniel's flat. Don't wait up."


	3. Sherlock: Eyelashes

John has dozed off. Of course, what else would he do? He has always slept an inordinate amount but now, because of the painkillers apparently, he naps constantly. Yesterday, for example. Having John along at the Yard, at Sonya Cushing's flat, was good. Better than good, really. But then he went down the instant they got home and barely rose for the rest of the day. His little forays into the conscious world are mere breaks from bedtime. Which does not take place in bed, but on the sofa. At least this train seat is a change of scenery.

Sitting across from him, Sherlock scowls. He was about to say something rather brilliant, actually. A series of deductions about the couple they'd passed on their way into the train car, who have just walked by arguing in hush tones. It's exactly the kind of cheap, sordid romance John enjoys. Sherlock waited for the couple to move onto the next car and then turned to tell John about it, anxious to watch John's eyes widen and hear him murmur, "Incredible again, Sherlock." But John was already asleep. By the time he wakes up the moment will have passed, that couple will have been deleted, their data not worth saving even for half an hour.

The wi-fi on this train is not working. Sherlock's phone is dead and there's no plug to charge it. He would steal John's phone but it would mean digging around in his coat and that would wake him up. One, suddenly waking John always carries a certain risk of being punched in the face, particularly in unfamiliar environs. It's only happened twice, but it's enough to make Sherlock cautious. Two, John appears to need this nap. It's really unbelievable how much the man can sleep. Is it the medications, or the stress on his body from the injury? Sherlock's gaze falls to John's right leg. It's propped up on a foot rest, but it's not high enough, the seat doesn't recline enough, John was right, this train ride is not what the leg needs and he'll pay for it later.

Sherlock knows it's his fault. He used John for bait, after all, and John went right along with it like he always does. Sherlock's been so pleased about not getting John killed that he hasn't thought much about how he got John hurt. There's not much to think about anyway, is there? Better an injured John Watson than a dead John Watson. He must heal, though.

Sherlock sighs, steeples his fingers, and stares out the window, watching the Midlands' green meadows fly by. Boring. He picks up his laptop again and checks for a signal. None. He turns his attention back to John, the only remotely interesting thing to look at in the entire car.

He switches to the seat next to John, sitting on his right. This is sleep pattern number five, he observes. It's one of the less desirable ones. John's face is tense even in sleep, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids and the corners of his mouth twitching subtly and irregularly. He seems to be dreaming in fits and starts. He won't have nightmares, but he won't feel rested either. Sherlock watches the pulse flitting in John's neck. It looks too fast for sleep. He laces his fingers together to resist the urge to reach up to John's carotid artery and count out his pulse. He badly wants to know. He compromises by counting John's eyelashes, not for the first time. It's not that there's anything particularly compelling about John's eyelashes. Just that they're available for counting. All of John is available for Sherlock's observation. Every wrinkle on John's face, for example. The lines under his eyes, around his mouth, and across his forehead are laden with information about genetics, sleep habits, pints of beer, shots of whiskey, and a wide easy smile that's seen a lot of use. John's hair looks horrible. It must be the dry, over-processed air of the hospital and their horrible industrial shampoo. Not that John has ever used decent shampoo to begin with. Sherlock makes a note to buy John some proper shampoo. Why not.

John opens his eyes with a start, his hands opening in front of him suddenly and involuntarily. He turns his head to the right and finds Sherlock there, nearly nose to nose, staring intently. Sherlock vaguely recalls a tirade about personal space, blinks, and leans back slightly.

"What are you doing?" John asks wearily. He's not angry. He sounds irritated and resigned, which is his default setting. Sherlock relaxes and settles back in, a little closer to John's face.

"Ear," he replies.

"Ear?" John asks, his voice still foggy from sleep.

"Examining your ear. What did you do before you shipped out to Afghanistan?"

"Canada. Training Centre in Alberta."

"That's the third continent, then. I thought so."

"What?"

"Nothing. Before that?"

"Belfast. A couple years."

"And before that?"

"Kosovo. Just one tour."

"So Afghanistan was the first place your ears were exposed to harsh, unrelenting sun?"

"Was… what? My ears? Yeah, I suppose."

"I see." Sherlock doesn't move his face from where it hovers just a couple inches from John's ear. "You can go back to sleep now." John does. Of course.


	4. John: Vindaloo

First Class is nice, but it's not magical. As he expected, John's leg aches like hell as he limps up the walk towards the Cushings' house. He's straining to keep up with Sherlock, who is clenching his fists in the effort to slow down. It takes decades, but eventually they reach the front door.

A woman who looks remarkably like Sonya but twenty years older answers the door.

"Good evening," Sherlock says in a clipped, professional tone, with a disinterested smile. "Mrs. Cushing?"

"Yes," she answers, narrowing her eyes.

"We are with the firm Perkins, Morton, and Cope. Is Siobhan Cushing at home?"

"Why?"

"We just need to speak with her about the flat she abandoned in London. It'll only take a moment."

"The flat she… What are you on about? She didn't… No. Siobhan is not well. You can call and make an appointment with her, you don't just show up at someone's door. What the hell is wrong with you?" She slams the door.

John adjusts his hold on his cane and turns to leave. "Well, that went well."

"Yes, it did," Sherlock murmurs without irony, tracing his lips with his finger as he examines the face of the house and then points at an upstairs window that is, to John's eye, indistinguishable from the other. "Look, the curtain's drawn but observe the outline of her head. The headboard is against the window and she's sitting in bed, leaning against it. She will have heard the doorbell, but she's not curious enough to turn around and see who's here."

"She's not well, her mother said."

"Indeed. And her mother has not been sleeping. She normally wears makeup and takes great care with her hair, but is currently doing neither of those things, though she did go to work today, reluctantly. She's quite concerned."

"But Siobhan is alive."

"It would seem so. Tomorrow, I'll see for myself."

"And that means Alex is dead?"

"Most likely." Sherlock doesn't seem the least bit troubled, but John wouldn't have expected anything else. He can be troubled for the both of them.

"And why aren't we telling that woman that her daughter's been killed?"

"Because then the killer – Daniel or Jason, whichever it is – will discover I'm onto him and flee, and I'll never get the evidence I need."

John feels slightly inhuman to be accepting that answer so easily, but then he thinks, why shouldn't he, he'll wind up accepting it in the end anyway. The Cushings will be told when Sherlock decides it is time for them to be told.

Back at the hotel, he's grateful for a hot bath that gives his leg some minimal relief, and for the pills in the black box, which he opens in the privacy of the bathroom. Time to start tapering off, he thinks. They really make him nervous.

He emerges from the bathroom in his pyjamas to find that Sherlock has appeared with Indian takeaway.

"Dimmock texted. Neither Alex or Jason was on a flight to Hong Kong in the last week."

John nods. That was expected. The takeaway, on the other hand, is unprecedented. "You bought food?" he asks incredulously.

"You're hungry," Sherlock replies as he puts the containers and forks out on the little table.

"I am. Famished, actually. This smells delicious. Chicken vindaloo? Sherlock. This might be the nicest thing you've ever done for me."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "I would've thought saving your life was the nicest thing I've ever done for you. In the future, I'll remember that picking up your favorite Indian dish will suffice."

"No, I'm afraid you'll have to save my life as well. But thank you for this." John pauses in amazement before digging in. "Sherlock, you got food for yourself?"

Sherlock says nothing, but rips off a piece of naan and dips it in the chutney. They eat in silence for a while. It's really quite good. Like most Londoners, John is attached to the idea that the only decent food in England is in his city; it has never occurred to him that one could find excellent Indian food in Chapeltown.

After dinner, he stretches out with a luxuriant sigh on the bed. Just the one bed. Before Sherlock jumped and they went on the run, he would have insisted on separate rooms, or at least separate beds. Now, it barely registers. This was the room that was available in the hotel with the best location. He didn't bother to look for another hotel. For weeks, they shared the same room, the same culvert, the same doorway, the same old car dumped by the river. They curled up side by side and though they rarely touched, they could feel one another's breath. They never shared a bed, but only because they never had the luxury. The truth is, John's happier than he'll admit to be sharing a bed with Sherlock tonight. "Sharing" is hypothetical, of course, since it's highly unlikely Sherlock will lie down at any point. But he'll be close by, and John knows he'll sleep better for it and if he has a nightmare, he'll wake up to Sherlock staring down at him, in that particular way that is simultaneously a bit disturbing and infinitely comforting. He's missed that. In the hospital, he woke from nightmares and there was nothing but the humming and beeping of machines and occasional footsteps in the hall. He'd reach for his mobile then, and more often than not, there would be cryptic texts from Sherlock.

_Calluses on base of index finger and knuckle of middle finger, right hand. He's a cook, why would he say he's a gardener?_

_SH_

When he had nothing to say, which was usually, he said nothing, but stared at the little screen in his hand and basked in its blue light until he could go back to sleep.

_Billiards chalk on his sleeve and mud on his right – not left – trouser leg. Alibi._

_SH_

When he had something to say, he did.

_Can pemphigus vulgaris afflict a woman in her early 20s?_

_SH_

_I doubt it. Middle and old age exclusively as far as I know. Why?_

_JW _

But now, John lies on the bed with his arm covering his eyes and drifts off bit by bit to the sound of Sherlock tapping away at his laptop and muttering to himself about Siobhan's uni records and Jason's life before Nigeria and the glaring lack of data in Daniel Beecher's flat.

When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock is, not surprisingly, staring down at him.

"Waiting for me?"

"Yes."

"You could've woke me up."

"You needed the rest."

"How long are you going to be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Uh… solicitous. Unusually concerned for my welfare. Caring whether I sleep or eat."

"It's what you do for me, isn't it?"

John sits up and rubs his eyes in shock. "What? Yes, of course, for you, but that's… That's what I do, isn't it?"

"I'll stop if you like."

"No, it's fine, really. It's just… not what you do. Typically. I appreciate it, very much. I just can't imagine it will last."

"Of course it won't. But you're injured and I need you to keep up. Get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs."


	5. Sherlock: Hospital

There are no cars in the Cushings' driveway and no lights in the windows, but Sherlock rings the doorbell anyway, twice. He's about to turn away and start breaking and entering – honestly, he's itching for an excuse to start breaking and entering and rang the second time only for John's benefit – when he hears shuffling feet in the entryway. Damn.

The door opens slowly, revealing Siobhan Cushing behind it. She does seem to be ill. She looks a great deal like both her sisters, but with a sharper chin and paler skin and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her black hair floats around her head in a lopsided cloud. Her eyes are a light brown, almost gold, and would be striking if they weren't so clouded. The dark circles beneath them don't help. Although her face is oddly puffy, she's extremely thin, bones jutting out everywhere beneath her pink dressing gown, University of Birmingham t-shirt, and cut-off sweat pants. Her stick legs end in feet that seem bigger than they are, pushed into gray slippers, and her arms hang listlessly at her sides.

"What do you want?" She scratches her neck listlessly; the skin there is already irritated and red.

"Siobhan Cushing?" Sherlock asks in his disinterested professional voice.

"What do you want?"

"Ms. Cushing, we are with the Perkins, Morton, and Cope. We represent your landlord, the owner of 125 Gossett Street. The damage to your flat, as I'm sure you're aware, is considerable, and completely unacceptable under the terms of your lease. Our attempts to contact you –"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Your flat, Ms. Cushing. 125 Gossett Street."

"Gossett Street. I wasn't even on the lease."

"We're aware." Sherlock looks down his nose at her. "That is one of the problems. But you'll agree that as a tenant of the flat – legally or not – you share the responsibility for the damage incurred therein."

"I moved out. You need to talk to Alex and Jason." Siobhan looks like she's planning to close the door, but she's moving very slowly.

"We understand they are out of the country and will be for some time. I'm afraid it falls to you, Ms. Cushing, unless you can prove you could not have caused the damage in question."

"I don't know what the damage in question is, but I haven't set foot in that flat in over four weeks."

"You have proof of that?"

Siobhan looks mildly confused for just a moment. "I went and got myself another flat, by myself. I signed another lease. My sister Sonya took it over for me, but I did sign the lease. I can find it."

"That doesn't prove anything though, does it?"

She stares at him blankly.

"Ms. Cushing, I'm going to need you to sign some…" Sherlock rummages through his shoulder bag and pulls out a manila folder.

"No." Siobhan shakes her head and mumbles to herself. "No, I can't deal with another sodding thing." She looks up at Sherlock and says, "Whatever you're talking about, I don't… I was in my new flat for two weeks and then I was in hospital after that and I've only just been home for two days. And yes, I've all sorts of documentation to prove that."

"Excellent. Would you mind getting it for us?"

"I would mind, actually. My head is killing me. I'm not well. I don't… I don't even understand why you're here. Go away." And the door slams again.

Sherlock turns to John with a slight smirk. "What's your diagnosis, Doctor?"

"She's ill. But I can't possibly make a diagnosis based on what I saw, and I haven't the faintest idea what you saw."

"I saw what you saw." Before John can reply, Sherlock starts walking around the corner of the house, quickly but careful to avoid windows. He notes that crouching beneath the windows isn't easy for John now, but he seems to be managing.

Sherlock stops short, looking at the ground in front of him. He ignores John's confused question, knowing John sees nothing but slightly bent grass; to him, the footprint is as clear if it was drawn in chalk. Since it rained yesterday afternoon, this must be from last night. Next to it, half a print, suggesting the person tried to climb the wall; they would have scrambled for purchase with their hands here and their feet here. They started near the drainpipe thinking that might be useful but quickly determined it would make too much noise. Then they continued around back…

The back of the house is a bit of a mess, which makes the prints much easier to see. There's very little grass back here and the patches of gravel and dirt hold the prints nicely. Here, the person knelt next to the basement window, then scrambled down onto their side. So they were able to get the window open – yes, it's still unlocked – but couldn't get through. Someone with broad shoulders then, a man, and judging from the length of the impression left on the ground, about six feet tall. Sherlock gets on his hands and knees with his magnifying glass. Next door, a dog barks, but he doesn't bother with it. John is here, John will be looking out for him. A spot of brick dust, but it doesn't match the brick of this house. Sherlock swipes his finger along it and touches it to his tongue. Why would the man have brick dust on his clothes, particularly his upper body? Has he been climbing other brick buildings? Digging through brick rubble? He reaches down to pick up something green, no more than an inch long, a blade of Johnson grass, clearly not from this lot or this neighborhood for that matter.

Sherlock stands and follows the prints out to a back alley, where they turn a corner and disappear on the pavement. He stops, straightens out his jacket, and turns to face John who is, quite naturally, standing just beside him.

He smirks just slightly, arching one eyebrow meaningfully.

"No," John says irritably. "You're giving me that look. No, I _don't_ know. Just tell me."

Sherlock impatiently walks him through his deduction that they are now looking for a broad-shouldered man of about six feet – which could easily be either Jason or Daniel – who's been hiding out in an industrial area with brick buildings and abandoned grassy lots. "Probably, though my knowledge of Leeds is not comprehensive, Sheepscar."

"Why was he here? To kill Siobhan?"

"No. The ears were meant for her. Clearly, when he sent them he didn't know she'd moved out and Sonya had moved in. Now that he knows she didn't receive his message, he'll have to send another. Then maybe he'll kill her, I don't know."

John's body stiffens and he narrows his eyes. Sherlock knows he's said something not good. But there's no one else here, what difference does it make. He ignores it.

"We'll make sure that doesn't happen," John says sternly, and Sherlock makes a mental note of the socially acceptable way to discuss an impending murder. "And? You were going to share your diagnosis with me? What have you deduced?"

"Both her sister and mother are hiding the reason for her hospitalization; the most reasonable explanation is either drug addiction or mental illness. Rapid and dramatic weight loss in the six weeks since the last pictures of her were posted on Facebook. That, along with her scratching, is consistent with withdrawal, but in that case her decline would likely have been more gradual and accompanied by other physical indicators such as track marks or burst capillaries on her nose, none of which she displays. Disorientation and generally flat affect are consistent with strong psychotropic medications. Her puffy face and headache and the irritation on her neck are side effects of a particular medication commonly administered intravaneously to particularly uncooperative patients, since British hospitals stopped using restraints. There are faint marks on the insides of her thighs; she was cutting herself with a razor approximately two to four weeks ago, but not deeply enough to attempt suicide and she didn't want anyone to see. And finally, her slippers. Presuming that SLAM is using the same slippers today that it was six years ago, they are the property of the South London and Maudsley NHS Foundation Hospital. They're surprisingly comfortable, she's not the first patient to nick a pair."

"So Siobhan left her apartment because she was committed to a psychiatric hospital."

"Very good, John, you're catching up. The question now is why."

They start walking back to the main road to catch a cab. Sherlock's mind is in Beecher's flat – almost completely empty, just bland furniture and bare floors – who cleared it out, his killer or himself? What is Beecher's relationship to these people? Who has a reason to send Siobhan messages coded in body parts? Suddenly he realizes he's gone far ahead of John and forces himself to slow down; John's breathing is labored and he's leaning on his cane far more than he should.

"We'll stop back at the hotel," Sherlock says brusquely.

"I'm fine." John is a terrible liar. After a block of silence he adds in an offhand tone, "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Were you in SLAM six years ago?"

"Mm. Also nine and ten years ago."

"Did you stay long?" John's voice is admirably neutral. No trace of pity or shock or scorn.

"Of course not. In London, Mycroft would have me picked up within hours. Long enough to wear the slippers, however."

"You've been hospitalized outside of London?"

"In New York. That was quite a longer stay."

"In New York? What were you doing there?"

"Cocaine, primarily. In both powder and rock form."

"I see. Did that… does that tend to… push you over some sort of edge?"

"No, though I suppose it didn't help." His voice is matter of fact but fast, let's move this along. "When I was younger, I had difficulty complying with social mores. Now, I'm more pragmatic. Hospitalization and imprisonment are both terribly annoying, as is having Mycroft rescue me."

"Right. How long were you in there? In New York?"

Sherlock pauses. Memories of a brief burst of fury with wrist and ankle restraints, an orderly who always grabbed his face so hard he was sure those fingers would leave bruises but they never did, pills and more pills and syringes, hours spent staring at a buzzing screen filled with people who never did anything, room after room of zombies who stared at him with glassy eyes until they fractured, periodically, into rage or fear or despair, all of his wordless screams being absorbed into the foam that encased the inside of his skull as if they never existed.

"Weeks. I don't know."

"You don't… How is that possible?"

"I was drugged. It was unclear. I could have gone back for my records, but what's the point?"

"Didn't Mycroft get you out?"

"No. I assume he knows about it, because it's best to assume Mycroft knows everything, but he doesn't know it from me."

"I see. And what does this tell you about Siobhan?"

Sherlock lets out a little breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relieved to get back to the case. "That she doesn't know what's going on."

That was the worst of it, too. They'd drugged him so far down he didn't know if he'd ever swim back up. Then there was one horrifying day where he knew nothing. He saw a doctor's ragged fingernails, her plastic earrings, the dryness of her eyes behind her contacts, the wrinkles on her neck, the loose button on her shirt sleeve, and put them all together and they added up to nothing. A fellow patient's slow watch and cherry chapstick meant nothing. A social worker's strained smile and new shoes meant nothing. He looked and heard and smelled and touched and tasted and the things announced themselves to him plainly –_ Tie. Bleach. Clipboard. Hair Gel. Chessboard. Towel. Spearmint. – _but that was all. It was like reading the cover of a book but being unable to open the book itself. He knew, then, what it was like for ordinary people, always waiting for meaning to be delivered to them, never hoping to be able to build it themselves. A world of surfaces. A world missing a dimension.

He was never sure which was the greater mystery: _how_ he was able to break out of the hospital with those drugs smothering his brain, or _why _he hadn't tried to do it earlier. Only that Prospect Park felt like a promised land. After two nights in a hollow tree there he dared to look outside. An unemployed software programmer jogged by with her baby in a stroller and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she regretted adopting the child, she'd only done it to save her marriage, and she was contemplating an affair with her husband's friend. The last day in Kings County Hospital easily ranks in the worst three days of his life.

Sherlock is an incredible actor but if he's not concentrating he shows everything on his face and he sees that now, mirrored in John's expressions of concern and sympathy. Or is it pity? Sherlock's never been clear on the distinction. To be on the safe side, he sneers. "_What?_"

He means for it to come out caustic and silencing, but John, damn him, does not appear to take it that way at all.

"Remembering something you said in my flat. Right when you came back. You said you didn't have to imagine not wanting to go on. You've attempted suicide, haven't you?"

"Irrelevant to this conversation." Sherlock squares his shoulders and raises his chin. He longs to shove his hands in his coat pockets and stride on ahead, leaving John far behind, but if he does that John might think he's ashamed, and that John also ought to be ashamed, and Sherlock is quite sure he doesn't want that, and is also quite alarmed that he's thinking about so many emotions all at once. It's intensely uncomfortable, dirty and disturbing, but he's doing it just the same; he must have picked this up from John.

"That's not what got you thrown in the bin, then?"

Sherlock lets out one huff of laughter. John's sense of humor: rarely funny but always a good sign. "No."

"When, then?"

"Not counting the jump? When I was twelve. Fourteen. And twenty. Unless you want to count overdoses too."

"Jesus. That's… a lot. Why?"

"I was bored. Wanted to know if I could. Had no reason not to."

"Jesus."

"You said that already. He didn't respond."

"I knew you were self-destructive, but I didn't know you were so…"

"Precocious?"

"I suppose so, yes." There's a pause, John thoughtfully biting the inside of his cheek. "Why didn't you succeed?"

"First attempt, poor design. I was quite young. Second attempt, Mycroft deduced and interrupted my plan. Third, a stranger found me." In spite of himself, he frowns at the last memory. That one was hard. It was closely followed by an overdose, his most dangerous, which really should be classified as another attempt, but his desire for accuracy is overridden by the sense that this clarification would upset John greatly and unnecessarily.

"You must've felt so alone," John says quietly. Sherlock doesn't know how to respond. He remembers John talking to his grave. _I was so alone._ That was puzzling. That John should be astounded, inspired, fascinated by Sherlock is perfectly logical. That Sherlock should make him feel less alone is incomprehensible. Sherlock has always been alone. Even John can't change that.

He exhales sharply in frustration. He longs to walk away, fast enough to leave John behind, but he can't do that without running, which would look ridiculous, and if he only walks fast then John will run to keep up and his leg can't take it, so that's what keeps Sherlock standing on the sidewalk staring intently at a telephone pole.

John clears his throat and nods curtly. "Well. You've got me now, haven't you. And we've been over this, no more offing ourselves."

"Yes," Sherlock snaps. "We have been over it thoroughly, are we quite done now?"

"Quite." And Sherlock's not quite sure why he hasn't done it yet, but now he lifts his arm and a cab miraculously appears.


	6. John: Train

"No need to go back to the hotel," John says casually as he settles into the cab.

"Of course there is. You need your medications."

"I don't."

"Why do you insist on trying to lie to me? It's pointless."

"I'm in pain, yes, you're right about that." John winces, as if it hurts him more to admit it. "But I don't need the bloody meds. I'm tapering down, and if we go back to the hotel I still won't take them. I'll drink a pint if you insist on it, but I'd rather we just go on to our next stop. Sheepscar is it? Or Scarborough?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment. The cabbie calls back, "Meter's running, gentlemen!"

"Train station," Sherlock barks. He turns to John and snaps, "It's an hour's ride to Scarborough and we'll be walking all about when we get there. You are being ridiculous. If you hamper my investigation, I won't let you skip your medication in the future."

John laughs affectionately. "It's not really up to you, Sherlock. You can't even get into the safe, so you can't force feed me, can you?"

"I have ways," Sherlock replies dryly. He turns to the window and mutters, "Scarborough. But I doubt we'll find Daniel Beecher there."

Sherlock's prediction is correct. After an entire day canvassing Scarborough, the neighborhood where the Beechers once lived, the hotel where his mother was once a manager and the insurance office where his father was once an agent, and the docks and factories where the young men congregated and they hoped to find Daniel's mates from school. A few people remember the Beechers and their athletic, outgoing son, but all agree that shortly after Daniel left for uni, his parents moved away. No one knows the Cushings.

On the way back, John's leg is on fire. He's said nothing about it all day, and at this point the majority of his mental energy is bent on controlling his expression. It's futile, he knows. But the least he can do is try.

He stares intently out the train window, trying to ignore Sherlock's eyes boring into him.

"You're in a great deal of pain, John." He's trying not to raise his voice, John observes, and is oddly touched.

John sighs. "Did I hamper your investigation?"

Sherlock drums his fingers angrily. "No."

"Was I helpful?" He's thinking particularly, of those three young men at the dock. John saw instantly how they looked Sherlock up and down and reckoned if he wasn't there they'd be calling Sherlock a pouf and more. At best, they'd refuse to talk to him; at worst, they'd find themselves in traction and Sherlock would find himself in a holding cell. So John stepped in, all jovial and, as Sherlock would say, manly, and at least learned that Daniel had gone to Birmingham University.

"Inasmuch as we obtained no information of value, yes, I suppose you were helpful in achieving nothing."

John chuckles. "Good enough for me."

"We're going back to the hotel and you are taking your medication."

"Yes, I reckon I am. Till then, you could distract me by talking about the case."

Sherlock launches in without hesitation. "Siobhan introduced Daniel, her friend from uni, to Alex and Jason. After Alex and Daniel's affair developed, she told Jason about it, in an attempt to end their marriage. Scenario one: Alex called it off and Daniel, in a possessive rage, killed Alex and Jason. Scenario two: Alex refused to call it off and Jason, in a jealous rage, killed Alex and Daniel. Either way, I believe they were shot, simply enough, quite dull, and their ears cut off shortly after. The killer now blames Siobhan and directs his residual anger at her…"

John interrupts him abruptly. "Sherlock, Siobhan has no idea. Sonya received her little sister's ear in the post and didn't know it. This is horrible!" It really is, John realizes, and he cringes to think he hasn't fully processed that till now. Clearly Sherlock is rubbing off on him, and not in the best ways. "Why aren't we telling the family?"

Sherlocks fixes him with that stare that says, _you can't possibly be that stupid._

"It seems cruel."

The stare morphs into another familiar look, a mixture of disdain and defensiveness. This conversation goes nowhere, he knows, but he persists anyway.

"It just seems that this family, the sisters, they were so close, and now… I just keep thinking of Siobhan, she'll blame herself, and she's clearly so fragile…"

"All the more reason to wait until we're sure then."

John sighs, unsure. "I wonder if they had a row. Siobhan and Alex. And that's what prompted her breakdown. Do you suppose? That would be so tragic, if the last time you saw your sister was like that… Do you suppose Siobhan brough Daniel around on purpose? To destroy her sister's marriage? Oi. Harry drives me round the bend, but I can't imagine us doing something like that to each other."

"It seems that sex is usually involved in such cases. Haven't you ever fought over a woman?"

John laughs. "Not since Jessie Grayson. I was nine years old and I'll admit I lost that round. But no, we don't go for the same type. She likes them sweet and forgiving. I prefer… Well, any girl who'll put up with Harry's shit wouldn't interest me, I'll put it that way."

Sherlock smirks in amusement. They sit in silence for a moment, watching North Yorkshire roll by. John is trying to imagine Sherlock and Mycroft competing over a… Woman? Man? The idea is so preposterous he chuckles to himself. What then? World domination? No, Sherlock has even less interest in that.

"You're wondering about Mycroft and me," Sherlock says dryly. "You want to ask, but you've no idea where to start."

"Yeah, nailed it."

Sherlock is silent, which is exactly what John expects. He wants to ask why, why are you both like that, what sort of creature is a Holmes anyway, how the hell does that happen, but these are not the kinds of questions Sherlock will respond to. He's at a loss and now that Sherlock's not distracting him, the hole in John's leg is engulfing his brain again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock turn his head to face John and he knows he's noticing the grimace of pain on John's face. At this point he's too exhausted to try to hide it.

"When I was very young, he was the only one who understood me," Sherlock says in an even voice. John's surprise utterly blankets his pain. "My mother and my nanny could barely understand half of what I said, if that."

"Why? Did you have -?"

"No, John," he snorts condescendingly. "I did not have a speech impediment. The rest of the world has a thinking impediment. My mind did not fit well within the confines of the English language. I had to make do, I suppose you could say I made up my own language, although that would suggest I had other interlocutors to share it with me, and I did not. It was the best way I could find to communicate. Mycroft was an interpreter of sorts. An imperfect solution, but it was what I had."

John processes this for a moment. It makes perfect sense, actually. "And then?"

"He went to boarding school. I learned to manage without him. I mastered English, several other languages, and everything else. That's the story."

"But he still sees you as that little boy who was dependent on him?"

"You could say that."

"I see. I apologize, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"This last time, with Moran, Mycroft had to swoop in again, and it was my fault. I'm sorry."

"That's the stupidest thing you've said in a month. It was his fault. For all his lectures to me about duty and responsibility, he had every obligation to clean up his own mess." He pauses, then adds quietly, "I didn't see it coming. It was, in fact, the first serious mistake I can recall him making in my entire life. It would have been delicious if it hadn't nearly destroyed both our lives."

John recalls the look in Mycroft's face when Sherlock came back from the dead. "He's a complete and utter git, but he does love you. You're not going to keep punishing him for that, are you?"

"Of course I am." Sherlock leans back in his seat and raises his face regally. "I'm vindictive, manipulative, ruthless, and relentless. I am a Holmes. Mycroft would expect nothing less from me. Now. We have 35 minutes until we arrive in Leeds, during which time the pain in your leg will become intolerable if I don't increase my efforts at distracting you, and then you'll be so annoying I wont' be able to share a room with you. Should I tell you about my first serial killer, or the time Donovan fell into the Thames?"

John grins broadly. "Both, please."


	7. Sherlock: Dive

This building is a good bet. There's plenty of Johnson grass around, the bricks taste right, and the footprints behind the Cushings' house told Sherlock to look near water. He creeps into the old factory silently

He starts up the stairs, though several are gone or crumbling, so he's hopping and climbing as much as he is walking. On the third flight he spots something in a darkened corner. A few bricks stacked neatly, intentionally. Someone was using them as a table. Sherlock walks closer and see where dust and cobwebs were cleared away for a bedroll. A half-footprint, very fresh, matches the print at the Cushings'. And this is the first building he checked. Absolutely brilliant. John should be here to see this.

The angle of the print suggests the man could've gone for the window to Sherlock's right. He backs up against the wall and sidles over to the window. There's a fire escape there, but no sign of anyone. There's infrequent traffic noise, the occasional barking dog or distant yell or clatter, but there's very little happening in this part of town. No sounds of any significance originating within 50 meters in any direction.

He peers around the window frame slowly. Nothing. Below him, on the fire escape and the street below, nothing. Above, across the street, to either side, nothing. So close. The man was just here. The fire escape is mostly likely, might as well follow along.

Sherlock is just throwing one long leg over the windowsill when it comes, a gunshot so close it makes the edge of his coat flutter. In an instant he dives back into the building and wedges himself into the corner. Silence again.

His hands instinctively go to his pockets, though he knows there's no gun there. He doesn't have one anymore, since he traded it for the sniper rifle, which was hardly practical to bring with him on the train to Leeds. He hates carrying a gun, actually; hates having anything larger than a mobile in his pocket. Better to have a John Watson; he's a far better shot and carries his own gun. But he's not here, of course. Sherlock almost took John's Sig with him, but something pinched in his stomach when he reached for it. The idea of leaving John unarmed… Well, it's stupid, almost superstitious. John's not in any immediate danger now, but Sherlock hasn't broken the habit of protecting him from Moran. It's illogical. John's safe and cozy and doubtless sleeping like a baby in the hotel with the Sig by his side, while Sherlock's out here in Sheepscar, being shot at and standing stock still like an imbecile.

Sherlock leans forward, just a little, just a little more, until he catches it – the shadow on the sidewalk across the street. He pulls back in just in time, as another bullet flies past him. Time to go.

He makes a run for the stairs, and leaps down to the ground floor. Footsteps outside, the shooter is running closer, pausing, trying to predict if he'll go out the front or the back. With the back, he thinks, there's a better chance of catching him off guard, identifying him and possibly even apprehending him. Also, as a secondary matter, a better chance of survival due to the stream running behind it and under a promising bridge. He feigns to the front, hoping the shooter heard his footsteps, and then creeps towards the back. The door rasps as he pulls it open just enough to slip his wiry body through. There's no movement outside. He starts to walk round to the front, planning to sneak up on the shooter from behind when suddenly he hears him and flattens against the wall. The man is just around the corner; he didn't go to the front but has clearly been waiting for Sherlock to come in his sights. A bullet punches the brick three meters from his head. This is an annoying position. Another shot, about two meters on the other side. The man's aim is horrible now. He's in a poor position; just a little too far away and his vision is partly obscured by some vegetation and a piece of gutter hanging in just the right spot. But as soon as Sherlock steps away from the wall, the man will have a clean shot. There's only one thing for it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and runs. He ignores the sound of gunfire as his long legs eat up the distance between the building and the stream – the sidewalk, the parking strip, the grassy bank – and throws himself forward and to the right, towards the bridge, and hits the water. Something knocks his head as he dives, but he drives the red flash of pain out of his mind as soon as he feels it and corrects the trajectory of his body. He lets his arms enter first to decelerate his impact and displace some of the water so it's able to accept him. It stings like hell, but he's extremely satisfied to see that the technique worked. He's never actually tried it before, but knew the water would be too shallow to accept him otherwise. He gloats face down, floating in the oily water. It smells wretched.

The gunshots continue but they're not hitting anywhere near, and the sound around him dulls and echoes. That means he's under the bridge, just as he planned. It's too dark here for the shooter to aim at him. Hopefully he'll believe Sherlock's already dead. Sirens approach, and that's just luck. Sherlock had no idea if people round here would call the police or not. The man's not going to waste time following a corpse under a bridge to make sure it's dead; he has to leave now. His footsteps pound away, to the south.

Sherlock stands up, gasping for air. The water only comes up to just above his knee. He wades through it the edge of the stream and allows himself a moment of rest, leaning against the graffiti-covered bridge to catch his breath, barely. His head is throbbing sharply, but he pushes that away. Then he's running south, following the footsteps he heard, the occasional footprints here and there, and a suspicion.

That suspicion is correct. Sherlock catches up with him at Leeds City Station. The man's business in Leeds was done, Sherlock just happened to run into him when he dropped by his temporary home to pick up his backpack, and he was planning to get on a train tonight anyway. The little shootout delayed him, but not by much. Sherlock looks up at the schedules. Yes, of course he's going to London, and then he'll be wanting to leave the country as soon as possible. His scheme bought him the time he needed to deliver his message, but once Siobhan has received it, he'll be found out immediately. Sherlock is scanning the station systematically, hoping the man isn't so unhinged that he'll start firing through a train station. It's late at night and there's hardly anyone here, but there are a few bystanders and security cameras everywhere.

There he is. Sherlock ducks behind a kiosk and watches a man wearing a black pea coat and a dark green beanie come out of the loo and walk towards the train. Sherlock still hasn't seen the man's face, but he recognizes the silhouette of the coat and the cadence of his steps. There's no question. But his back is turned and he still has no idea if he's looking at Daniel or Jason. Sherlock looks desperately around the station for any other place he can stand to see the man at another angle, but if he moves, he'll be totally exposed, and if he can see the man's face that means the man can see him. He recognizes his backpack – Jason wore it hiking in one of those Facebook photos – but that doesn't tell him this is Jason, since it could just as easily mean that Daniel killed Jason and took his backpack. The man is about to get on the train but the conductor gestures at him to wait just a moment. He shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other and reaches up to his face. His arms lower and he makes a familiar motion. He's wiping his glasses. Daniel Beecher wears glasses in 85% of the Facebook photos. Jason Franco never does. It's not enough, but it's close.

The man is on the train now and it will pull out in a couple minutes. Sherlock grimaces and clenches his fist in frustration. He could get on that train right now. He could corner the killer and solve it all. He could also get shot, and that would make John very, very cross. The pain in his head stabs suddenly as if to punctuate the thought.

He waits for the train to pull out of the station and then pulls out his mobile, fearing the worst. Amazing. It's that hideous, waterproof, supposedly indestructible case John bought for him the morning before they came to Leeds. Sherlock didn't want to use it, it's enormous, it looks like it would make a better weapon than a communication device, but he'd had a feeling tonight could be more eventful than others, so he decided to put it on. And look – despite being immersed in the toxic waste of the Meanwood Beck – the mobile turns on.

_Ear man coming on Nat'l Express from Leeds, arriving Kings Cross 2:15 am. Caucasian, brown hair, glasses, 5 feet 11. Dark green knit beanie, black pea coat with standup collar, blue jeans worn at knees, brown Timberland boots. Probably Daniel Beecher.  
__SH_

_Cheers Sherlock! He's as good as ours! - Dimmock_


	8. John: Monsters

John wakes in a panic. Sherlock's not here, and there's no reason that should strike fear in his heart except for the weeks when Sherlock was there, always. That's over, but apparently one night in the same room has put him right back in that mindset. No one is hunting us, he tells himself in the dark. No one is hunting us. We are grown men. I am a grown man and can sleep alone. He is a grown man and can go wherever he wants in the middle of the night. He stares at the ceiling and counts out ten deep breaths. He probably won't go back to sleep, but what does it matter. With those sodding pills, his sleep patterns are ruined anyway. He sits up and turns on the telly, flipping channels till he lands on a superhero movie of some kind, it's mindless and silly and there are explosions and monstrous villains – literally monsters, not humans who slice off the ears of their friends and lovers and pop them in the post.

The door swings open and Sherlock strides in, as brisk and upright as always, not wasting a glance at John on the bed, heading straight for his laptop. But his confidence can't obscure the fact that he's dripping wet and reeks of gutters.

And he has to pass the bed on the way, which is why he can't hide the blood on his face. John leaps up and grabs his shoulder.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_?"

"New evidence," Sherlock snaps, jerking his arm away. "I don't have time for this."

"Don't have _time_? Are you aware that you're bleeding from your right temple?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock removes his coat and sits at the desk. "Head injuries always look worse than they are."

"Yes, except when they don't. Let me look." Sherlock ignores him, so John shoves him around until he can get his head in some decent light. Then he has to close his eyes and remind himself to breathe. The sight of blood on Sherlock's face will probably always take him back to the sidewalk in front of Bart's, the same way a certain song that dominated the charts in 1980 will always take him back to his father's fists, the same way the glint of harsh sunlight hitting metal just so will always bring him back to an afternoon in Afghanistan with a soldier dying beneath him and his certainty that he was next. John blinks, refocuses, and checks Sherlock's pupils and pulse thoroughly, twice, before he's satisfied. Then he turns his attention to the wound. The right side of his face is almost completely covered in blood from an ugly gash at his temple. John reminds himself to breathe. "What did you do?"

"Dove into the Meanwood Beck," Sherlock answers distractedly as he logs onto his laptop. "A bridge got in my way. It's really nothing; I didn't even notice till the rest of me dried off."

John grits his teeth. "Dare I ask what possessed you to dive headlong into the Meanwood bloody Beck?"

"The bullet whizzing past my head," Sherlock replies with great irritation.

"Jesus Christ." John grits his teeth. "I should've been there."

"Nonsense." Sherlock snaps. "What difference would it have made?"

"I would've shot the bastard before he shot at you," John's voice is quite a bit louder than he intended it to be. He takes it down a bit, but his heart is pounding through his chest. "I'm quite good at that, you know."

"Yes, but you wouldn't have been able to climb up three stories of a derelict factory with half the staircase gone, or to run back down them once the shooting started, never mind hide in the stream." John freezes. He's not sure what his face is doing, but whatever it is, Sherlock obviously doesn't like it. He's looking up from his laptop finally and anger flashes through his eyes. "Come on, John, your _leg_. You can't expect me to tiptoe around you and pretend nothing's changed. Don't tell me you want me to lie to you!"

"No." No, he thinks, but I should've been there. What _is_ doesn't change what _should be._He clenches his fists and shoves it down. "Of course not."

"Then _what_ is the problem?"

"The problem? You could've been killed, and I was lying here in bed. I used to have your back, and now I can't. As you say, I can't pretend otherwise. I should've been there. I should have, but I would've been useless." He purses his lips and shakes his head. "Just let me clean you and bandage you up if that's all I'm good for now."

"Honestly, John, I told you I have_ new evidence._ All that can wait."

John wipes a hand across his face. He might not be a father or an uncle, but as a doctor he's spent enough time with children to learn that sometimes letting the little gits have their way is the most efficient strategy for getting your own way. This seems to be one of those times.

"Alright," he grumbles. "What's your new evidence?"

Without looking at him, Sherlock reaches into an inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a latex glove. He puts it on, then takes an envelope from the same pocket and sets it on the desk. On the outside is written:

_Congratulations Shiv. You worked so hard for this. _

"You took the evidence, Sherlock? You know the police might not be able to use it now that you've had your hands all over it."

Sherlock wiggles his gloved right hand in their air while his left hand searches for the US Army website.

"It's not just the prints, it's… oh sod it, you know all this, you just don't care. Where'd you get it, anyway?"

"Wedged into Siobhan's bedroom window. She would've seen it when she woke up."

"Is she safe? Wait, you went there _after_ you gashed your head open?"

"She is fine. Obviously, I am too."

"Obviously you are an idiot without an ounce of common sense. When you are bleeding copiously from your head, you either go to hospital – which I know is beneath you – or you go back to the hotel to see your friend the doctor. Calling your friend the doctor to come meet you would also be acceptable."

"You were so concerned for Siobhan's safety. I thought you'd want me to look in on her."

"Bollocks. You didn't give a thought to her safety; you just had to see if he'd been there. He… who is he, anyway? Who shot at you?"

"Daniel. I think. Anyway he's on a train to London." John's eyebrows raise in a question which Sherlock waves away with his long fingers. "I texted Dimmock, yes. Are you going to open that envelope or not?" Sherlock reaches into his coat and throws another glove at John.

With the glove on his left hand, John pulls a photo out of the envelope.

Two hands, a man's and woman's, their fingers intertwined. The print quality isn't very good and the color is off, so it's hard to tell that the owners of the hands are no longer alive. If it was cropped a little closer, he might have thought the picture was sweet. But it's not, of course. The hands are severed and their stumps clearly, intentionally visible.

John sighs sadly. He can feel Sherlock practically vibrating with excitement next to him. It's a clue, glorious and laden with meaning. John looks at it again and sees something metallic, glinting in the darkness behind the man's hand. No, it's in between the two hands, spilling out of them. A chain. And the corner of something else.

"Dog tags?"

Sherlock grins. "I thought so."

"Yeah, but ours are circles. If that's a rectangle, it's American. Jason… was U.S. military? Huh. Sonya didn't seem to know…"

"I thought he could've lied to Alex about it. Perhaps she was against the war. But no." Sherlock gestures at his laptop. "No record of an enlisted Jason Franco so far. No record of a Jason Franco at all, actually. Suppose he deserted his station in the Middle East or Africa and fled to Nigeria, where he met a nice British girl who could give him a new life in a new country where he already spoke the language?"

John bristles. "That works," he says grimly.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You're scandalized that a fellow soldier deserted."

"I am, yeah. It's pretty basic, you know, pretty fundamental right up there with 'don't die' and 'don't let another soldier die.'"

"You can't imagine why he would."

John laughs humorlessly. "No, I understand it quite well. Never would consider it, but I understand it. Every soldier does, or he's lying. There are days – weeks, sometimes – when you can't think of a damn reason not to leave. You don't _do_ it, of course. But everyone wants to, sometimes, and everyone does… War does things… It's a cliché, isn't it. But you can't imagine. One morning you're chatting with a bloke in the mess, he's going on about how little Ethan is doing so well in maths and little Tessa had a ballet recital and little Emma just lost her first tooth, and he's got pictures and all, and he's just beaming like the sun rises and sets just for them, and then that very afternoon you see the same soldier slicing an ear or a finger off a dead man with a great wide grin on his face... And he's the same person… That's the part I never could…" John's voice trails off. It's a little odd that Sherlock hasn't interrupted him, and he doesn't dare look up to see the look of condescension that no doubt awaits him on Sherlock's face. Instead, he stares sadly at the picture.

"Alright, so Daniel killed him. The dog tags are a message… For Siobhan? Why?"

"To tell her he knew Jason's secret. She loves him, perhaps his reputation is important to her?"

John nods. "Reasonable. So she brought Daniel to the Francos to break up their marriage, it spun out of control, and their deaths are the result, or that's how Daniel sees it. That's what the message means?"

"You're keeping up, John."

"You've solved it then, haven't you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, grumbling incoherently. John catches snippets of it. "Something's not right… Missing piece… Who is he?"

John shakes his head with exasperation and affection. "Alright, look at you. You're filthy. Can't you smell yourself? You've got some really beautiful new evidence here, but it's not going anywhere. I won't tell you to eat. I won't tell you to sleep. I just want you to take a shower. Five minutes. And when you come out, you'll let me bandage you up."


	9. Sherlock: Hands

Now that John has fallen back asleep, Sherlock can admit that he was right. He's clean and dry and it feels lovely. His head still hurts but it's already feeling much better and after letting John fuss over it for an eternity, he is certain it really is nothing. The fresh bandage feels reassuring; he always likes the way John patches him up.

Sherlock leans back against the headboard and turns his attention back to the laptop balanced on his knees. Once he knew what he was looking for, it wasn't difficult to determine when Alex was in the VSO and narrow down a list of wanted AWOL's who deserted within a one-year window. From there, he made a few simple deductions and scanned through some photographs and there he was. Aaron Delgado of Columbus, Ohio, last seen at Forward Operating Base in Khost province; presumed missing following an insurgent attack and later determined AWOL.

The mobile pings a text alert; he extracts it from its absurd Humvee of a waterproof case and reads the message from Dimmock.

_We've had men at every station on the way and he's stayed on the train. Ready for him at Kings. Wish you were here! _

Sherlock glares at the phone and sets it on the bedside table, then turns his glare on John, snoring lightly next to him, curled up on his side and facing the wall. He pokes him in the back, twice. John grunts and flinches but doesn't wake up.

Sherlock sighs and looks again at the photo, sitting on the bedside table next to him. Something is not right. For the millionth time, he wishes he had the hands here. It's not fair, to tease him with this picture and give him nothing else. Something about the man's thumb bothers him, and he needs to touch it, feel the line of it, turn it around in three dimensions.

He lets out a noise of frustration, somewhere between a growl and a curse, and puts the picture back on the table.

Alex Cushing's Facebook page again. The modern age really is wonderful, with so many options for narcissistic twits to throw pictures of themselves into the winds like so much confetti. It's a good time to be a consulting detective. Sherlock looks for a picture of Daniel and Jason, and then it finally happens. The click. His eyes widen and he gasps through parted lips, _oh. _

John wakes up with a start. Sherlock has made seventeen louder noises than that gasp in the last half hour, but none of them mattered; this is the one that wakes him up. He rolls over and sits up, eyes fixed on Sherlock to determine whether he should jump out of bed and throw on some clothes, reach for his gun, or lie down and go back to sleep.

"What, what is it?"

"I've solved it."

"Yeah, you did before, didn't you?"

"No. Look." Sherlock swivels the laptop so John can see it. "Look at Jason's right hand." He clicks through several pictures, showing Jason's hand in a variety of positions: waving, holding a pint, holding a spatula, grasping Alex's shoulder, resting on her waist. "Now Daniel's." Daniel's hand in a playful fist, holding a rugby ball, holding a water bottle, gripping the strap of his backpack, resting on a table. "His right thumb. It's got a little crook in it, you see? You wouldn't notice it unless you compare all the pictures and see it never straightens out all the way in any position."

"You're right, now that you point it out. I've seen loads of those. It's a common rugby injury."

"Ruby's not a very popular pastime in Columbus, Ohio."

"I don't follow you."

Sherlock places the photo on top of the laptop.

"_Oh. _Sherlock, how long till he reaches Kings Cross?"

"Twelve minutes."

_Aaron Delgado, pseudonym Jason Franco, is the murderer. Beecher is the vic. Pic to come.  
__SH_

He pulls Alex's Facebook page up on his phone, quickly finds a close-up of Jason, copies the link into a text, and hits send.

_What? You sure? _

Sherlock blinks at the phone and decides not to dignify Dimmock's question with a response. He drops it ceremoniously on the floor, closes his laptop and sets it on the bedside table, and leans back on the headboard with a sigh. It's done. Everything fits. In this moment, everything is smooth and calm and humming in harmony.

"Do they have him?"

"Not yet." He's set it all up for Dimmock and at this point, if Delgado gets away, he deserves to.

"Dimmock." John shakes his head. "When we get back you've got to see how you can help Lestrade." John yawns and rubs his eyes. "Wonder if he'll confess… He left Aaron Delgado behind to become Jason Franco, and then he killed Alex and Daniel and framed Daniel for Jason Franco's murder to become… I guess we'll never know who he would've become."

"Very nice, John. Very profound."

"You going to sleep now?"

"No. I'd like to get back to London as soon as possible. Early train."

"Agreed. But I'd like to sleep a bit more till then. Turn off the light, will you?"

John lies down and curls up in his former position. Sherlock turns off the light, then stretches out on his side, facing the back of John's neck. It's silent. Non-responsive. The moment of perfect calm and harmony has passed and now he feels itchy and unfinished.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you pouting?"

Sherlock huffs indignantly. "I'm not pouting. Why would I be pouting?"

"Because I haven't told you you're brilliant. Of course you are. You've wrapped up this case beautifully. The bit with the thumb was incredible. And you have to tell me later how you found him in Sheepscar. You're a marvel, Sherlock. Now go to sleep."

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, happy that John's still facing the other way. The tinge of sarcasm in John's voice is exactly the right amount. He wriggles down into the blankets and resumes his examination of the back of John's neck. It's a familiar view, and many times it's been the last thing he saw before he went to sleep. He can't sleep yet. But now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can consider the layers of sunburn on that neck, time John's breath (sleep pattern number two), and calculate the curve of John's left ear.


	10. John: Homecoming

John takes off his jacket, folds it and places it on the neighboring seat, settles into his own seat, and leans his cane on the wall next to him.

Across from him, Sherlock stretches legs and more legs, arms and more arms. Sometimes, John thinks, if you squint, the man seems to have additional limbs because it's just not possible for a regular human to go on and on like that.

John yawns. Though he did sleep last night, it was interrupted repeatedly. May as well nap on the train. He starts to recline his seat when suddenly Sherlock's computer lands in his lap.

"What?" he asks, taking the laptop but narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Write," Sherlock replies with a dismissive wave of his long fingers. His eyes are closed and he's already reclined his seat and put up his feet.

"About what?"

"You can't be serious. We just finished a case full of all the sensationalistic romance you adore. Illicit affairs! Unrequited love! Crimes of passion! Secret identities! Exclamation points! There's so much sordid material, you can easily ignore my methods and everything else of consequence. It's perfect."

John rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to defend himself but shuts it, and just stares at the laptop instead. "I don't know," he says, finally. "You know that I haven't written since you died."

"I'm blissfully aware." Sherlock opens one eye and fixes it on John with a cold blue stare. "But you _are_ still my blogger, aren't you?"

John tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in response.

"Then blog."

Sherlock closes his eyes again and clasps his hands across his chest. John waits a moment, then opens the laptop, finds a wifi signal, and logs into his blog. The moment he enters his password, he hears a faint snort and looks over the screen to see Sherlock's crooked smirk. John shakes his head and begins typing.

_You've all heard by now that Sherlock Holmes is alive. So much has happened, I hardly know where to start. So for now I'll start at the end, with the case we just finished. So much has changed since I last wrote, but in some ways it is just like old times._

John peers over the laptop again at Sherlock's face. The smirk is gone, his features relaxed, his breathing even, but his fingers are still twitching. He's not asleep just yet, his boundless energy not quite exhausted enough for the crash. John has gone to sleep so many times to the sound of Sherlock's violin. He wonders if it will be helpful for Sherlock to drift off to the soft sound of John's fingers taptapping on the keyboard. He turns back to the computer.

_The case came in two days after I came home from hospital. I was resting my leg on the sofa when Sherlock came bounding into the living room, saying "A case, John! Dimmock's got something for us at the Yard! Get up!"_...


End file.
